Rest a Weary Soul
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: Oneshot. An escape from THRUSH in the Cascades goes very, very wrong for Napoleon and Illya.


_Notes: the characters aren't mine, but the story is! This is in response to the picfic challenge prompt at the Section VII comm on LJ. I promise it ends happily_.

* * *

Napoleon wanted nothing more than to be able to rest—to temporarily escape from his aches and pains in the numbing blanket of sleep. Having escaped from a THRUSH hideout in the Cascades thanks to the help of his trusted partner Illya, he had already been weary as they made their escape on snowmobiles in the middle of a snowstorm. But THRUSH hadn't been ready to give up their prize prisoner so quickly; a THRUSH grunt had pursued them on a snowmobile, as well, first attempting to take out Illya with a luger. Napoleon had run the side of his snowmobile into the grunt's, spoiling his aim just in time.

The grunt had turned his attention to Napoleon after that, running his snowmobile into the side of Napoleon's. Napoleon returned the maneuver, and the exchanged continued for some time until the grunt knocked Napoleon into the path of a large tree.

What had happened next remained a bit of a blur to Napoleon, but Illya had later described it as, "You dented the tree, and then the tree dented you."

Indeed, Napoleon had crashed into the tree, his momentum sending him flying into it—the end result being the incredibly battered, bruised, and aching state he was in now. The THRUSH grunt, however, had not been so lucky; he had lost control of his snowmobile and had ended up plunging into a ravine. Illya had pronounced the grunt dead after one look over the edge and had then turned his attention to his wounded partner, helping him to an old, abandoned cabin on the slope—all the while under fire by more THRUSHies toting everything from machine guns to rocket launchers. Somehow, they had made it through the onslaught and were hiding in the cabin as the sound of rocket launchers continued.

And now, Illya was still watching the snow continuing to fall—and the rockets continuing to speed past the cabin. And Napoleon was slumped over in a chair, determined to rest his battered body with some much-needed sleep…

" _Napoleon_!"

He was barely aware of his partner's sudden panicked shout; but he flinched and opened his eyes as he felt a hand gently slapping his face to bring him around.

"Illya…" he muttered. "Stop that…!"

"You cannot sleep! You may have a concussion, and you need to stay awake until Medical has had a look at you," Illya instructed.

"Illya, I am ninety percent sure that I don't have a concussion."

"You hit a _tree_ at twenty miles an hour on a snowmobile."

"…Alright, then—eighty percent. Look, have you tried any of the channels?"

"Yes, several times," Illya sighed. "I haven't been able to get through any of the channels—not in here. The closest I came to making contact was when we were outside near that foul tree."

Another rocket whistled dangerously close to them, zipping by a foot from the window of the cabin. Illya pulled Napoleon up, leading him to the window.

"It's fortunate that these THRUSHies can't hit the broad side of a barn with all this snow coming down," Napoleon commented, shaking slightly while on his feet. He placed a hand to his head. "Ow…!"

"Napoleon?"

"…Better make that seventy percent, _Tovarisch_."

Illya regarded him with a worried expression.

"You need medical attention immediately, Napoleon," he said. "The longer we wait here, the greater the risk of your falling asleep or unconscious—or THRUSH making their way to this cabin."

"There's no phone," Napoleon said, shutting his eyes to stave off vertigo. "And you said yourself that the communicator isn't working in here."

" _Da_ , I know," Illya sighed. He looked out the window in resignation, though the American didn't notice, as he was still keeping his eyes shut. "Napoleon, you must promise me something."

"Uh-huh?"

"Promise me you will not succumb to sleep—that you will not close your eyes while I am gone."

"Sure, I… Wait…" Napoleon opened his eyes now, frowning in realization as he saw Illya heading for the door of the cabin. "Illya, are you nuts!?" He flinched as his own yelling aggravated his pain, and he held his hand to his head.

"It's the only chance I have of getting word back to U.N.C.L.E. about your condition so that they can send help!" Illya countered. "I would take you with me to keep an eye on you if I could, but you are more likely to lose consciousness out in the elements! Just hold on and _stay awake_. I shall return once I've finished making contact."

"You step out there, and you're likely to get yourself shot or blown up!" Napoleon held his head with both hands now. "…Oh, my head…"

He shut his eyes again, but heard Illya's footsteps as he approached him, and felt his presence in front of him as the Russian placed his hands on the American's shoulders.

"I shall be careful," Illya promised. "I remember my Survival School training; there's no need to worry about me."

"I'll be the judge of that," Napoleon muttered. He opened his eyes again, noticing the Russian's worried expression, and he was suddenly bitter. "You're only going out there because of me."

"Don't act like you wouldn't have done the same," Illya said, with a wan smile. "You would have gone out there if it meant saving me; I have no doubt about that. Now, please remember…"

"I know, I know," Napoleon sighed. "Stay awake."

It felt like a task easier said than done, but he wasn't about to tell Illya that. But it hurt to move, and it hurt to even think. The temptation to rest for just a moment was growing stronger by the minute.

Illya sensed this, and he thought for a moment, trying to find the proper motivation.

"If you will not stay awake to save yourself, then stay awake as though my life depended on it," he said at last.

With his piece said, Illya released Napoleon's shoulders and headed for the door of the cabin. He paused, waiting first for a lull in the firing outside. Once he was satisfied it was safe, he looked back at Napoleon with a nod and slipped out into the cold, closing the door behind him.

Napoleon took a few steps forward to the window, watching Illya maneuver out in the snow; the Russian was keeping as low to the ground as he could while moving as quickly as possible. Another rocket zoomed overhead—it missed Illya by yards, but it was still concerning for Napoleon to see. Well, at any rate, worrying over Illya would certainly succeed in keeping him awake…

The American sighed as his partner now disappeared from his line of vision. It certainly did irk him that Illya was out there solely because of him. The snow was bad enough without THRUSH attacking. …Although, Illya certainly had a greater tolerance for the snow than he did—though that was to be expected, of course.

Despite himself, Napoleon chuckled; snow had never been a problem for the Russian. He seemed his happiest in the New York winters—a blanket of snow on the ground, coating the trees and the streetlights. And though Napoleon claimed that he couldn't stand the snow, he'd still begrudgingly go out on those winter walks with Illya; it made the Russian happy, and he always asked for so little…

Napoleon's thoughts trailed off as be began to slip into slumber; fortunately, his face smacked against the cold glass of the window as he leaned forward, quickly bringing him around. He stood dazed for a moment, quite startled that he had just nearly fallen asleep on his feet.

Several more rockets whistling far overhead caught his attention now. Napoleon frowned as he watched their trajectory—heading the peak of the mountain they were on. He tutted at THRUSH's aim—or lack thereof—as he continued to wonder whether or not his partner had successfully made contact.

That was when the rumbling started.

For a split second, Napoleon thought it was an earthquake; but no—he knew what an earthquake felt like, and this wasn't it. He opened the window, leaning out and glancing towards the mountaintop—and saw a large, rumbling cloud of white thundering down the mountainside. THRUSH had abandoned aiming at Illya to cause an avalanche to take them both out.

Adrenaline took over, numbing all the pain he was feeling; Napoleon closed the window and scrambled backwards, seeking shelter under a small table in the cabin, covering his head with his hands.

The rumbling was soon accompanied by splintering glass and cracking wood. And then, it all subsided, with only silence remaining. Napoleon dared to look, sighing as he saw that the force of the avalanche had moved the cabin off of its foundation; the windows and part of the walls had been breached, and the roof was falling apart and into the main room of the cabin, with the tiny table having protected Napoleon from the debris falling directly over his head. Though it wobbled and creaked, the table stood.

With the adrenaline wearing off, Napoleon crashed to the floor beneath the small table, the pain returning tenfold as he lay there, exhausted. He had to shut his eyes—just for a moment; his entire body was screaming in pain! Just a minute to rest, to numb the pain, to recover slightly…

"… _stay awake as though my life depended on it_."

Napoleon's eyes snapped open in abject horror as he recalled his partner's words from earlier.

"Illya!" he exclaimed.

He worked his way out from under the table, across the fallen pieces of cabin ceiling and walls. The door had splintered off of its hinges, revealing the wall of snow outside that the avalanche had deposited.

 _Oh, no_. "Illya!?"

His muscles screamed in protest as he clambered up the wall of snow, crawling across it to progress forward. His arms bucked beneath him, sending him face forward in the snow. Napoleon didn't move for a moment as the snowfall continued around him and on top of him, but, at last, he looked up.

" _Illya_!?" he called again.

There was no answer; it was eerily silent and still. THRUSH's attacks had stopped; the THRUSHies had undoubtedly sought cover on account of the avalanche. But there was no response from Napoleon's lost partner, either. And with an aching heart, Napoleon continued forward across the snow, still on his hands and knees, getting up again and again as he collapsed every few yards.

He knew the truth, deep down. If Illya wasn't dead already, then he was dying—dying because he had only wanted to help Napoleon, dying because he put himself last, just as he always did… and all in vain. They were both going to die on this forsaken mountainside with the snow serving as their tombs…

" _ILLYA_!?"

His cry echoed all around him without a response, and he continued to despair. Still, he pressed onward; if they had to die, perhaps they didn't have to die alone, separated from each other like this.

He wasn't sure for how long he had been crawling forward; it might as well have been an eternity. If he had thought he had known the meaning of pain before, then he knew its deepest meanings and secrets now. Every fiber of muscle had been pushed to beyond limits and felt ready to snap. Darkness would be descending upon him—both upon the mountain, and upon his consciousness.

Napoleon collapsed again, staring blankly ahead. That infernal tree he had crashed into was still standing in the place where he had collided with it, unmoved by the avalanche. The irony of it almost made Napoleon try to think up a witty comment—but that was when he noticed a pair of arms sticking out of the wall of snow, covered with blue coatsleeves, desperately wrapping themselves around the tree trunk.

A final burst of adrenaline pushed Napoleon forward; sure enough, it was Illya, unconscious and mostly buried in the snow. He had, apparently, just managed to grab ahold of the tree trunk before the avalanche hit, resulting in this. The tree trunk had undoubtedly, saved him from being carried away or buried deeper in the snow.

Napoleon clawed at the snow to free his partner from it. Illya's lips were an alarming shade of blue, and for a terrifying moment, Napoleon wasn't sure if it was because of hypothermia or asphyxiation from being buried in snow; mercifully, he saw the breath leaving Illya's face as condensation a moment later.

At last, Napoleon freed his partner from the snow and held him close; now it was his turn to gently slap Illya's face until he got a response.

"…N…Na…?"

"Yes, it's me, _Tovarisch_." The American gave a wan chuckle. "Too many syllables, I know…"

The weakest of smiles appeared on the Russian's face.

"You… stayed awake…."

"And your life did end up depending on it," Napoleon sighed. For the second time now, the adrenaline was running out, leaving him more tired and more in pain than before. His thoughts were soon diverted as he realized that Illya didn't respond to his comment. "Illya!? Illya, come on—rise and shine! You've got to stay awake, too!"

But Illya mumbled something in his native tongue instead, slumping against Napoleon's shoulder.

" _Illya_!"

Again, he gently slapped the Russian's face to bring him around. At last, the blond looked up at him.

" _Prosti menya_ …"

"Don't you dare apologize! Just stay awake! …And that's a direct order!" Napoleon added.

Illya did arch an eyebrow at Napoleon's desperate attempt to pull rank—he only ever did in life-and-death situations such as this. And though Illya always did his best to try to follow those orders, he had to wonder whether this would be the one time he wouldn't be able to.

"I can try…" he mumbled.

Napoleon, now slumping against Illya so that they were both supporting each other, gave a nod of understanding.

"I hear you, _Tovarisch_. …I don't suppose you got through to U.N.C.L.E.?"

"Don't know… Avalanche hit…"

"…Before you could wait for a reply?" Napoleon finished. "Of course." He sighed, desperately trying to think of something to say in order to keep himself awake—and hopefully engage Illya in conversation to achieve the same for him. "You know, it's ironic… My namesake in 1812 lost a good deal of his army due to hypothermia while retreating from your forefathers."

"…Should I feel bad…?"

Napoleon chuckled, but then sobered.

"This is how it's going to end…?" he sighed, after a moment.

"Not in fire, but in ice…" Illya murmured.

Napoleon chuckled again.

"That amuses you?" the Russian asked.

"No… But I was just remembering that famous Fire and Ice poem. You know who wrote it?"

" _Nyet_."

"Frost."

The low, exasperated groan was music to the American's ears.

"Death is almost upon us… and you are making puns," Illya grumped.

"Let me put it this way… The more puns I make and the more you hate them, the longer we stave off our inevitable fate."

Illya sighed now, looking up at the snow falling on them.

"I don't usually… get hypothermia…"

"You don't usually get hit with a wall of snow, either," Napoleon sighed. He fought against his closing eyelids. "Illya…?"

"Mm?"

"Illya, I can't come up with any other puns; I'm sorry. The only idea I have right now is setting fire to what's left of the cabin. Unfortunately, I don't have anything flammable to do that with."

"Just as well," Illya slurred. "THRUSH would know… we survived."

They both lapsed into silence, but it only lasted a moment.

"Napoleon?"

"Uh-huh?"

"I only… wanted to help…"

"I know, Illya. I know."

"You're dying now."

"So are you—because you tried to help me," Napoleon sighed. "Let's just call it even, huh?"

" _Da_. No debts… between us."

"Sounds good to me."

There was another gap of silence, and Napoleon felt his partner go slack against him.

"Illya!?" he exclaimed. He gently slapped the Russian's face again. "Illya, I take it back; it doesn't sound good at all! Stay awake!"

Illya winced slightly.

"I thought… we'd settled things…"

"Well, I changed my mind," Napoleon responded. "We're going to try to walk down the mountain."

"I cannot move."

"Well, you're going to try," the American insisted. He stood to his feet, every fiber of his being once again screaming in protest; he ignored it, dragging his Russian companion up with him.

Illya tried to walk forward, but he found himself too cold to move more than a few steps.

"Napoleon, leave me here," he said. "Save yourself, at least."

"Not a chance!" Napoleon replied.

He soon found himself dragging Illya along with him; with every step being a Herculean effort, Napoleon was hoping that he could make it someplace warmer than where they were so that Illya could recover enough. And looking over their heads was the threat of being attacked, even though they hadn't been since the avalanche.

Once again, he lost all track of time and distance; he wasn't sure for how far they had gone before Napoleon had crashed to his knees.

"Napoleon…!" Illya exclaimed, weakly, as he saw the pained look on his partner's face. "Please, go on ahead!"

"Not without you," Napoleon vowed, sounding much more determined than he felt. "You can't expect me to just…"

Whatever it was he wanted to say was now being drowned out by the drone of a helicopter.

"THRUSH…!?" Illya exclaimed, as a spotlight fell on the two of them. "Did they find us!?"

Napoleon had moved to place himself between Illya and the helicopter before he was able to discern one of the faces aboard the craft.

"No!" he exclaimed, in disbelief. "That's not THRUSH! It's ours! That's Mr. Waverly up there! You _did_ reach them, Illya!"

Illya stared in befuddlement for a moment, but then cracked a weary smile as Napoleon's words sunk in.

Somehow, they had both made it.

* * *

Within minutes, both partners had been brought aboard the helicopter and had been wrapped in blankets.

"A most impressive display of endurance, Gentlemen," Waverly was saying. "You both made it more than halfway down the mountain before we found you. You might very well have made it completely had you kept at it."

"I'm not sure I fully agree, Sir," Napoleon said. "But we appreciate the vote of confidence."

"What of THRUSH?" Illya asked, wearily.

"We managed to round up several of them—the ones who had attacked you and started that avalanche. Once we're certain there shall be no more snow movement, we'll see to retrieving that fellow in the ravine."

"No need to rush," Illya said, leaning against Napoleon's shoulder again. "I suppose I can finally rest now?"

"Yes, you're quite safe now," Waverly said, picking up the clipboard that one of the emergency medical staff had handed to him. "You can rest, as well, Mr. Solo. It seems your famous luck has been with you once again—you don't have a concussion after all, in spite of your collision with the tree."

"I told you," Napoleon said to Illya. "Seventy percent sure!"

"Then forgive me for denying you your rest," Illya said.

"You would've frozen out there if I _had_ fallen asleep," Napoleon said, quietly, as his expression became more somber.

"Nevertheless, that isn't what happened," Waverly said. "I think it's most commendable how you both kept each other alive when it would've been easy to declare it every man for himself. …Though I suppose that isn't really unexpected with you two. Still, it's good for setting an example to junior agents. Now then, I'll leave you both to your recuperation; I trust you won't give Medical too much trouble once we arrive there?"

The duo responded with noncommittal murmurs as Waverly took a seat near the other agents in the helicopter.

Napoleon sighed and slumped back against Illya, the two of them supporting each other once more.

"Illya?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you, _Tovarisch_."

" _Da_. And thank you, too."

Illya was soon out like a light. Napoleon was drifting off, as well, though something Waverly had said was still in the back of his mind—

" _It seems your famous luck has been with you once again_ …"

Many at U.N.C.L.E. had claimed that Napoleon was born under a lucky star; others often claimed that he had a secret good luck charm that got him out of one scrape after another. Whether it was fate or some divine providence, Napoleon didn't really know. And he didn't really care. All that mattered was that this so-called "luck," whatever it was, persisted—and that there was enough to go around for both him and his partner.

After all, the real secret to his success was to have been assigned a loyal partner like Illya Kuryakin.


End file.
